


Things are strongest where they're broken

by Nunonabun



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Argument & Resolution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunonabun/pseuds/Nunonabun
Summary: A look at two arguments between Shelagh and Patrick, several years apart. These were prompted by a couple of asks on tumblr.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. A kiss in danger

Patrick looked around his office, trying to conjure up additional work. _It shouldn’t be like this_ , his mind whispered to him. They hadn’t even been married a year and already the cracks in their relationship were so large that a deep chill blew through their previously cozy existence. 

But had it been cozy? Their relationship had been a rollercoaster since before they even acknowledged it existed. The peace, the rosy joy of that brief period after their wedding, that had been the anomaly. And even then there was the strain of Timothy’s recovery. Shelagh had pushed Timothy then too - continued to push him - to enjoy what she thought he ought to, imposed herself on their way of being as though that was how a cohesive family was made. Marianne had never done that. When she’d enquired about the war he’d politely closed that topic and she’d let it lie. A compromise. That was how relationships were built to last. Damn it, why couldn’t Shelagh let this lie? Maybe she’d been right when she’d worried that their inability to conceive a child meant God frowned on their relationship. 

He rubbed his eyes hard with the palm of his hands, the retinal ganglia sending brilliant flashes of light to illuminate the darkness behind his closed lids. What was he doing, turning to a God he didn’t believe in to let himself off the hook? What was he doing blaming Shelagh for loving so fiercely? Shame washed over him. _I shouldn’t be like this. I’m a coward, a broken old coward who drags others down with me._ The words stung with truth, and despair welled up within him. And he hated that too, hated that he was sitting here, wallowing in self-pity while his wife worked upstairs to restore normalcy. He could smell it, wafting down the stairs. A roast, he thought. 

_Put it away, just put it away. If we both commit to restoring a normal life, it will fall back into place. All of the mess with the adoption will fade into the past and we’ll move on. If more children aren’t in the cards, well that’s just that. We were happy just the three of us and if we can just get past this bump, we’ll be happy again._

Decisively, he flicked off the lamp, hung his white coat on the rack, and marched upstairs. 

He opened the door to the warmth and brightness of his familiar flat. The punchy patter of _Beyond Our Ken_ drifted out of the kitchen along with the smells of supper and the lighthearted chatter of Timothy and Shelagh. They were jokingly trying to imitate one of the presenters, Shelagh failing to capture his accent, sending Timothy into hysterics. The laughter stopped as he closed the door, the lightness instantly dissipating. _Did you need any more proof that this is your bloody fault?_ He buried the bitter words as soon as they formed. He tried to school his features into an easy happiness, hoping they would shape the feelings they masked. 

“Hello dearest,” Shelagh stepped out of the kitchen to greet him, an uncertainty in her eyes dampening the brightness of her welcoming smile. 

He smiled back in reply, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. In spite of the warmth of the flat, her skin was as cold as marble under his chapped lips. Their movements felt stiff and mechanical, unsettling. She felt it too, he could read that in her eyes, guarded as they were. 

He pushed the thought out of his mind, the more they practiced this normalcy, the more natural it would become. They would get through this.


	2. A kiss on a scar

He set his bag down heavily. Sister Frances had been nervous about the labour of a first-time mother that was running a bit long and he’d opted to go and assist her. His presence ended up being more helpful for morale than for any medical assistance, but he was happy to help in any way he was needed. He joyfully wet the baby’s head with Mr. Allen before returning home for the evening. Though the work had been far from demanding, he was thoroughly exhausted. A concern pricked at his ego, such a calm call-out wouldn’t have taken so much out of him even five years ago. Mr. Allen’s jovial comments about how relieved the good doctor must be to have left this trying experience behind him years ago would have been water off a duck’s back when Tim was still running about in short trousers. 

He shrugged off the troubling thoughts along with his coat, turning his attention to what supper Shelagh had left for him in the oven. 

Nothing. He sighed. She _knew_ he'd been called out.

He made himself a sandwich and wolfed in down before making his way upstairs. 

Shelagh was just coming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her hair, a slight cloud of steam emerging from the open door. She seemed to glow in the moonlit bedroom. He probably smelled of sweat and the smoke of the pack of Woodbines Mr. Allen had puffed through during his wife’s gruelling labour.

Frustration at the contrast of their evenings sharpened his words. 

“Looks like you had a relaxing evening. Is there any hot water left, or did you go through that along with the supper?”

Shelagh had the nerve to look affronted. “I’m sure there’s enough for a bath, and I’m sorry about your supper, there wasn’t any food left.”

Patrick pursed his lips, dissatisfied with the explanation. “You always cook for five, six when Timothy’s home, it couldn’t have been to hard to make enough for me as well.”

“Well, I apologize but I didn’t realize just how much Teddy would decide to throw on the floor and onto myself and his sisters, nor how much they would throw back before I managed to calm them down.” Her voice carried all of the tension he could see in her body. “I could make you something simple if you’re hungry.”

“No, no, I’ve done it myself while you had a nice soak.” That was unkind, he knew that, and he was mildly ashamed of himself, but it felt so good to let out his frustration.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be preferable if you found me in bed with cottage pie in my hair,” she retorted sharply.

“I wasn’t aware it took hours to clean off a bit of cottage pie.”

“It takes a good while if the pie has been used to decorate the kitchen and you have three crabbit children to clean up and settle on your own.” Her eyes were reproachful, arms folded.

Patrick scoffed, “Oh, so now I’m at fault because I was out doing my job?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind having a bit more support around the house. It’s past time you thought about taking on a young doctor to help with some of the work,” she forced her voice back down to a whisper, words coming out almost as a hiss. 

“I’m not fit for the dustbin just yet,” he snapped. “Sister Julienne is older than I am and you don’t go about telling her to give up work!”

“Patrick,” the forced conciliatory tone frustrated him while also making him feel exceedingly childish. “I never said you should give up work. It’s just that you have many calls on your time and for you especially being overworked is... unhealthy.”

He snorted and ran a hand down his face. “So I’m old _and_ fragile then?

Shelagh was visibly struggling to restrain her own frustration. “No, that’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Do I?” He fixed his eyes on her again, exasperated. “My war neurosis is in the past, we’ve established that. Yet you manage me like I might become an _invalid_ at any moment.”

She blinked and frowned, recoiling as though the words had been a physical blow. “I thought that was helpful, reducing the stressors that might put you in the state you were in that time - ”

“I got out of much worse than _that state_ on my own after the war, you don’t need to witter on about it every time I have a long day.” 

“I’m not _wittering on_ about it, I’m just trying to take care of your health.” She looked hurt, and he harnessed his anger to push through the guilt.

He rolled his eyes. Could she not just let it _go_? “I don’t need to be taken care of, for goodness sakes, I’m your husband not your patient.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, her accent, thick with the emotion of the situation, stretched the ‘e’ to a melody of its own. She was very distressed now. “And that’s why I care so much about your wellbeing. I would have though you might as well, if you didn’t let your ego become more important than effect your absences have on our family.”

His words caught in his throat. His thoughts were moving to fast to catch ahold of. Patrick turned quickly and walked out of the room, out of the house and into the blissfully quiet night, leaving them each to their own grievances.

* * *

He had closed the door softly, thankfully mindful that this argument would be even worse with upset toddlers joining it. Shelagh was on the brink of tears. They’d grown in leaps and bounds since the early, confusing days of their marriage, but new challenges were never shy to present themselves. He needed space to process their argument, she knew that, but _she_ needed him to talk to her. Not to talk at her and then close in on himself when she pushed back. Perhaps it was selfish of her to resent the feeling that he didn’t consider her needs. Had she properly told him that sometimes the way he took space hurt her? Or that she felt her own work never stopped? 

But why should she always have to tell him these things? She figured out what he needed when he struggled to communicate. She was always looking for ways to manage his stress and make things easier for him. Why could he not try to do that for her? That thought stood out loudly in her mind, and she disliked herself for it. Perhaps she had become selfish since she left the Order. Men often struggled to communicate their feelings and perceive those of their wives, was it not part of her role as a wife, as someone who loved and was loved, to facilitate that communication? And in any relationship each partner had different strengths, it was ridiculous to assume they were equally balanced in every element of their personality. That they complimented each other in many ways was as much of a strength as the qualities they had in common. But there were things that needed to be shared equally, she had learned that over the course of her marriage, and communication was one of them. 

She longed to speak to him about these thoughts, to have a discussion about it without their anger flaring up and ruining what understanding they’d managed to build up between them. Perhaps they still could this evening. Shelagh hated going to bed angry, and she knew Patrick did as well. He would be back from his walk soon enough, cooled off and likely more able to talk about these things. Perhaps she should take the time to stabilize her own emotions. She put on the kettle and began to hum the Vespers service to herself, emptying her mind of all but the calm the music brought her. 

* * *

It was misting lightly, the small particles of moisture diffracting the light of the streetlamps and causing the cobbles to shine.

He couldn’t rid himself of the memory of her face. She had looked hurt, tired and defeated, a look he sometimes saw if the children were being particularly trying and every other facet of her life conspired to add to the chaos. Normally he wasn’t one of them. A wave of guilt washed over him. He didn’t add to the chaos, but he didn’t help with it either. Not as much as he ought. Dr. Kenley had commented recently about how unnatural it was that wives were pursuing careers after they’d had children and husbands were assuming more responsibility for child-rearing, demeaning themselves, he’d said. Patrick had thought his family to be beyond those old-fashioned strictures. He and Shelagh were a modern couple, equals, sharing every element of their lives with one another. This honesty and closeness was something he cherished deeply. But was it also something he took for granted? Many of their conversations recently had been practical, solving problems and preventing disasters only on the level of scheduling, engaging with the emotions beneath that. He’d neglected to explain the concern he felt at growing older while his family was still young, and he’d neglected to ask about the troubles that weighed on her mind. He stared up at the moon, suddenly longing for closeness with his wife, to explain what he’d been feeling and apologize for what he’d been blind to. He turned back, his pace accelerating as he neared his home. 

* * *

She met him at the door, looking much as though she’d gone through the same introspection as he had. He gently took her in his arms, relief enveloping him as her arms encircled him. 

“I’m so sorry, my love. I took my frustrations out on you, and it was completely unfair.” He held out the olive branch, knowing that as the instigator, it was his responsibility to do so. 

She accepted it. “I certainly didn’t help the situation. I should have asked you to take your space before we talked.”

“And I’m sorry for taking it the way I did. I know it hurts you when I run off in the middle of a conversation.”

“It does,” she admitted. “But it’s nothing that talking it over now won’t heal.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her hair. “I’d like that too.”

She sat on the couch, and he removed his wet shoes and joined her.

“Do you really feel I treat you as an invalid?” She asked immediately, her face lined with concern.

He thought about his answer, trying to untangle his own emotions. “Not exactly, that was overstating things. I love that you look out for things that may... trigger me,” he started slowly, “but there are moments when I feel it’s a bit much.”

She accepted this revelation. “Would you tell me then, when you feel that way?”

“I will, absolutely. And much of the time I really do appreciate it. I wouldn’t have gotten through my last relapse, wouldn’t be able to be as open and comfortable as I am about it now without you, I want you to know that.”

She smiled, her eyes warm and soft now. But her brow remained furrowed. “So when I reproached you for working so much -”

He cut her off, “That was completely justified, both for my own sake and for you and the children.” He took a deep breath and held her hands in his own. Their warmth, and the gentle way her her thumb stroked his fingers soothed him. “If I’m being honest, you were right about my ego. I was feeling sensitive about my age, often am, really, and I think I’ve been trying to prove something to myself, and to everyone else, by working more.”

“Oh Patrick,” he could hear the pain in her voice. He pushed on, “It is self-destructive, as you pointed out, and it’s getting in the way of spending the time I want to spend with you and our children. And it leaves you with all of the burden of work and family. That’s not the life I want to be leading. That’s not what I want for us.”

Her soft hand on his face drew him into a healing embrace, the understanding and love they communicated through their lips, through the acceptance of the feelings they’d shared with one another a balm to old wounds. Their conversation continued long into the night, the sleep they lost was well worth the understanding and closeness they gained. Such an argument might happen again, they both knew that, but both learned from it, worked to be better partners. And they grew closer, as they knew they always would for as long as they loved one another enough to work through the problems they encountered and any friction that arose. Until death parted them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you're all safe and well.  
> If you had any thoughts, even short ones, please drop me a note below. It's really nice to hear from you, whether it's constructive criticism or something you liked :)


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